


Dear to Me

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Bed Warming, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 19:53:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4072480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lindir offers to warm his lord Elrond’s bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear to Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pt_tucker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pt_tucker/gifts).



> A/N: Because pt_tucker and her bedwarming.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s long after the Woodland party’s left that Lindir finally summons the courage to say what he means. He thinks of it all day, telling himself again and again that it’s worth it to try—his lord is a kind one, and won’t punish him even for such lewd indiscretions. In truth, he fears dismissal far more than any other punishment, but his lord would surely give him a second chance. He’s never stepped another toe out of line, aside from longing looks here and there and the constant, quiet pining. He waits until the night falls, until the last possible moment, when the two of them are in Lord Elrond’s chambers and the moon has risen over the balcony. 

Lindir finishes hanging Lord Elrond’s cloak. Sometimes, he manages to offer to brush his lord’s hair, and many times, Elrond has let him. When he turns to face his handsome charge, who stands tall beside the bed, Elrond removes his own circlet from his head and begins to untwist one of the small braids that hangs over his shoulder, in anticipation of that brushing. But it isn’t why Lindir lingers tonight. 

Lindir still can’t resist. He moves quickly towards the bed before he loses the nerve, and he stands in front of Elrond, deftly untwisting the other side. The feeling of Elrond’s silken hair between his fingers always makes him shiver. It’s a soft, intimate touch that he cherishes. He finds himself almost trembling as he unties the little braid.

A strong hand is placed over his. He stares at the chiseled knuckles and the strong, elegant fingers that hold his still. He fights to keep his cheeks from flushing, but he imagines he hasn’t done so well. Elrond says, “Lindir, tell me what troubles you.”

Lindir starts to say, “Nothing, my...” but he stops before the title is out, because that isn’t strictly true. And it irks him to lie to his master. He takes a steadying breath and chances a look at Elrond’s eyes, which are as gentle and solid as ever. Lindir is given the space to finish in his own time. “I... it is only that...” Another deep breath, and he rushes, “I have learned of a certain... service... that King Thranduil employs, and I... I believe you are deserving of such a service yourself.”

He doesn’t have to look to know that Elrond’s brow has risen. The hand stays lightly above his, and it takes all he has not to latch onto it and beg to be forgiven. But he licks his lips and goes on, “I wish to... submit myself to this duty, if you will permit it.” And in truth, he would never forgive himself for suggesting it if another were to fill that space. He’s sure he would grow sick with jealousy. Though, of course, he only wishes for his master to be happy, and he already knows he alone could never be worthy of that end. 

Slowly, Elrond asks, “...And what is this duty you speak of?”

Lindir opens his mouth, but there are no words to answer. He tries, truly, and when he remembers the Greenwood elf speaking proudly of their job, they sounded so confident, so proud. Yet the suggestion itself feels _dirty_ to Lindir, and not simply because he knows his motives aren’t pure. It takes him several quiet seconds to manage, “B... bed... warmer...” His eyes are already respectfully lowered, but now he bows his chin to his chest, eyes closed. He would drop to his knees if he could, but Elrond’s hand is still on his, and by the time it falls away, Lindir is too paralyzed to move. His heart is beating very fast in his chest. 

Then he breaks the silence again to gush, “I am sorry. Please, forgive me. I will never speak of it again—”

“Lindir,” Elrond says, and it cuts Lindir off immediately. His head jerks obediently up, eyes latching onto Elrond’s, which are as kind as ever but tell him no more. More softly than Lindir deserves, Elrond asks, “Am I to understand that you wish to warm my bed?”

Lindir would say nothing, but the push to be truthful to his master has him breathing, “Yes.” Elrond looks almost _surprised._

He looks out towards the balcony and lets out a heavy sigh. He asks, “And what exactly does this service consist of for King Thranduil?”

Lindir licks his lips. In truth, he doesn’t know the extent of it, but he guessed from the elf’s delightful look that it could include all manner of debauchery. All he officially heard, he repeats hollowly: “Lying beneath the covers of his bed to keep it warm, and occupying the bed at night—tight along the side, of course, to take up no unnecessary room that should belong to his lordship—in case there is any need for a servant at any given hour.” What that need might be, Lindir doesn’t say. It wouldn’t matter. He would be happy to do anything for his lord. He would freely fetch Elrond a glass of water in the middle of the night, and he would giddily get on his knees and strip his clothes away to release carnal pleasures. But he’s unworthy of that. 

He says no more, and after a moment, Elrond looks back at him. He can’t bring himself to meet his lord’s eyes. He feels as though he’s under intense scrutiny, though the only thing he has to hide is the shame of his own desires.

Then Elrond moves. Lindir doesn’t follow, merely stays where he is until he’s dismissed, staring down at his feet and listening to the blood pounding in his ears. He wishes he’d been quiet, so that he could be perched on his lord’s bed by now, threading a brush through Elrond’s hair. 

After several steps and the creaking open of wooden doors, Lord Elrond returns. He holds out folded fabric that Lindir’s arms automatically lift to take. It’s silken, embroidered but so thin it’s nearly translucent: a far more exquisite fabric than anything Lindir owns. “You may wear that for tonight, if you wish, as you have brought nothing of your own,” Elrond tells him. “...And if you truly desire this as much as it seems, I will sample this... ‘service.’ ...But I am not Thranduil. I do not hold such contracts, and if, at any point, you wish to leave, you may do so without fear of consequence. You will not be replaced; I have no one else whom I would allow in my bed. And you will retain your regular duties, so long as you wish them.”

Lindir can hardly believe his ears. He’s trembling, his hands clenching tight in the fabric. He barely has the wherewithal to answer, “Yes, my lord.” It comes out almost as a moan. He almost wishes Elrond were a little more like Thranduil, and would simply order Lindir to strip and lie along the mattress, but then he wouldn’t be _Lord Elrond_ ; the man Lindir’s fallen so hopelessly in love with. 

He looks up, but Elrond has already swept away, off to the private washroom in the other part of his chambers. It leaves Lindir alone in the grand bedroom, holding near-gossamer in his hands, with only the moon and stars as witness to his pleasure. He could fall to his knees with gratitude, but somehow, he holds himself together enough to place the bundled fabric on the bed. He strips his own robes off with clumsy fingers, unable to concentrate. He keeps glancing at the far door, half hoping his lord will interrupt him in the midst of changing. 

But he strips alone. Just being bare in Lord Elrond’s quarters is enough to make Lindir feel deliciously _dirty_ , and he savours the moment for as long as he dares before unfolding the white night-robes he was given. The slip fits easily over his body, though he’s slimmer and lest muscled than his master, and the sleeves fall down the tops of his shoulders, not broad enough to fill them out. He can feel the richness of it on his skin and can’t help but hope that he’s allowed to wear this again; he’d far prefer his master’s clothes to his own. He can only wonder if Elrond has ever worn this. 

His own robes, he places on a table in the corner. Then he’s left alone, and he returns to the bed on light feet, nearly bouncing. He said himself what a bed warmer is meant to do. He’s still hesitant as he lifts the golden duvet that covers his master’s bed, the pearly sheets completely wrinkleless below. It feels strangely _right_ to slip between them. He tries to stay tight to the side, but no matter how he positions himself, _he’s in Lord Elrond’s bed_ , and that fact makes him hot all over. For one sinful moment, he stretches out, feeling as much of the grand bed as he can, imagining his beloved master lying here every night. He stares up past the carved headboard to the wooden ceiling above, and he turns his face in the plush pillow, inhaling deeply. He can smell his lord’s scent, and it makes him dizzy with want. 

Lord Elrond appears a moment later, sweeping into the room with long, dark purple robes that cover all of him, tied at the side with a built-in sash. Lindir has never seen Elrond in these and finds it a special treat. Elrond is stunningly handsome in whatever he wears, but he’s especially so in this forbidden view, which Lindir has thus far only dreamed off. 

Elrond comes to the other side of the bed and lifts the covers. Lindir dutifully shifts as far to his end as he can so as not to take up any more space than he must, but Elrond lifts a brow and says, “I would not have you discomfort yourself so. My bed is plenty large enough for two, and you will take as much room as you like.” 

Lindir automatically says, “Yes, my lord,” though he only shifts a tiny bit forward. He doesn’t dare do anymore. He lies on his side, trying not to stare but completely staring as Elrond climbs gracefully beneath the covers. He settles on his back and smoothes them out again. Looking up at the ceiling, the carvings of which are barely visible in the pale light, Lord Elrond closes his eyes. For that moment, he looks perfectly at peace. Lindir’s breath catches from the sight of it alone. He can’t imagine his luck. He ogles his lord indecently, until he can’t stand himself anymore. 

Then he rolls onto his other side, facing out across the starlit room and trying desperately not to let his lord consume him to the point of embarrassing himself any further. His position isn’t quite comfortable, and he doesn’t want to shift and disturb Elrond, but eventually, he has to, feeling noisy and cumbersome. He’s too hot under the blanket, the force of his desire and shame clawing beneath his skin, and he peeks his shoulder out of the blanket for it, tugging the robes down to expose as much skin as possible. He feels like his hair is a mess. This may have been a foolish idea. He’ll look a mess in the morning, and Elrond will still be devastating beautiful. He squirms, trying to stop but unable to. 

Elrond’s soft voice wafts over him. “Are you trying to tempt me?”

Lindir freezes. There was no ill-intent in the words—there never is. Just a simple statement. He lets out a shaky breath and murmurs, “I am not vain enough to think myself tempting to a man of your stature, my lord.” It’s the truth, though he could see how Elrond would think it of such a shameless offer, coming into his bed. Perhaps all Lindir’s pining looks haven’t gone unnoticed. 

Another few moments, and Elrond says quietly, “Forgive me for asking this, and remember that you are still free to leave at any time. ...But I cannot place your actions, and I must know your wishes. In asking to provide this ‘service,’ are you hoping that I will touch you?”

Lindir stiffens. He’s been caught, and he has no idea what to say about it. He can’t deny it, but he doesn’t want to say anything that will force him to leave this bed, however awkward he might find himself. His mind is reeling, and yet his mouth opens and speaks: “I am always hoping you will touch me.” 

The bed rustles. Lindir closes his eyes tight; he can hardly believe this is happening. A hand is placed atop his shoulder, the touch feather soft but _warm_ , and Lindir can’t stop the keening noise that tumbles from his throat. He turns, shifting around to meet Elrond’s eyes through the darkness. The hand shifts but stays on him. Elrond murmurs, “I suspected as much.” Lindir bites his bottom lip. He doesn’t deny it. Elrond strokes Lindir’s bare skin for a moment, each little touch seeping pleasure into Lindir’s body. He tries to memorize it and hold on tight, but in reality, the bliss of the moment is clouding him. Then the hand falls away, and Elrond sighs, “But I am much too old for you, and I hold too much power over you.”

“Power you never wield,” Lindir jumps to say, though he should be silent. The hope has leapt in him; neither of those reasons is anything to fear, when Lindir assumed all along that Elrond simply couldn’t _want_ him. “You are a kind master, and that is part of what I adore in you. And age... age is but a number to an elf...” Elrond smiles, but it’s a sad, soft thing that makes Lindir’s heart hurt to see. 

Elrond says, “You give me much to think about.” And that’s more than Lindir could’ve ever hoped, so he simply bows his head against the pillow in acceptance. He wishes they were sharing the same pillow, but he isn’t so foolish as to overstep the few boundaries left between them. 

He mumbles, “I understand.” And he says no more, because apparently, his actions over the years have said the rest. He’s already gotten more tonight than he could’ve ever wanted. 

Elrond shifts across the distance. He lifts up, and his lips press a warm, chaste kiss to Lindir’s forehead. Lindir’s eyes fall closed, pure happiness washing through him. 

When Elrond settles back again, he murmurs, “Sleep, dear Lindir.”

Lindir keeps his eyes closed, ready to obey. He feels better than he ever has. He would lie awake all night to savour this if he could, but the command’s been given. 

He lets his dreams consume him, though none could be better than the one he leaves behind.


End file.
